Natebecca: The Birth of a Beast
by Varia Lectio
Summary: How Rebecca met Nate. It's not a happily-ever-after type of romance... Rated M for sex, mild S&M, and language.


**Natebecca: The Birth of a Beast**

**Rating:** R for sex. Violence. Sexualized violence. Potty-mouth language. Nathan being abused (poor Nate! hugs). Rebecca being a seductress as well as her usual self, which begins with a "b" and rhymes with "witch".

**Summary:** How Rebecca met Nate. It's not a happily-ever-after type of romance...

**Notes and Thanks:** This was directly inspired by BOTH **spookysqueek715**'s deliciously excellent fanart of Rebecca (scroll down) in bondage gear with a cigarette, and **killmelaterrr**'s about said image. **Thank you so much for that fanart** because it really birthed this fic in my imagination. Yay. Many, many thanks. May your graphites never break and your pens never run out of ink.

Fanart and comments can be found here (just remove the spaces:

community. livejournal. com/ capslokdethklok/ 101507.html# cutid1

community. livejournal. com/ capslokdethklok/ 101507.html? thread1436803# t1436803comment

_( / )_

Rebecca Nightrod was a woman who always got what she wanted.

It had always been like that, whatever the occasion, whatever her age. She was her father's golden child, his only daughter. All her life, she had been given what she needed and wanted, whenever she asked for it. Tennis as a child, modeling as a teenager, a sitcom as she moved into her early twenties, yet Rebecca felt her youth slipping from her as she turned twenty-eight, and found no cure for it. So for the first time in her life, she found herself going someplace where she didn't really want to be, for no truly discernible reason that she could find.

Her mother Gloria had suggested a Dethklok concert as a get-together for the two of them, given that mother and daughter hadn't spoken in years. _Dethklok!_ The low-brow insanity of it galled Rebecca, but for once in her life she stooped down to do something charitable for another human being, and accompanied her mother. She felt sorry for her, really -- what else could you feel for someone who was nearly over sixty and wasn't bothering to get regular Botox injections or even color her gray hair?

Yes, one would feel sorry for a woman like that, especially if she was one's mother and especially if that mother happened to be with one in public. On Mother's Day, no less. Rebecca felt sorry for her mother, but she also feared her, as a symbol of what might be if -- no, _when_ -- Rebecca lost her own youth. She would be despised, laughed-at, and rejected. So, as if to appease the angry god of aging who seemed to be looming over her shoulder more and more often these days, she sprung for the Dethklok tickets herself, and obtained good front-row spots.

The show started. It was all vulgar noise to Rebecca; she neither understood nor empathized with the legions of black-clad, head-banging young people around her. Her mother was swaying to the music, saying something about some idiot named Skwisgaar. Gloria's mouth was almost touching her ear but Rebecca could barely hear her. She barely felt the jostle of the crowd. She only had eyes for one person, and that was the Dethklok front-man.

It wasn't love at first sight; there was no room for love in Rebecca's heart towards anyone save herself. But it was a curious combination of hatred, revulsion, and sheer lust. Not the usual haughtily empty apathy that she felt for her other numerous sexual partners, both male and female. This was...stronger. More animalistic, as if the black-clad front-man was some prowling, dangerous animal stalking around the hellishly lit and smoking stage up there, and he needed her to leash him and break him. Watching him, she felt more sensual. More alive. She felt young and impassioned again. The Dethklok singer was as vulgar as his music, yet there was something about his walk, about his heavy-set build, about the long, jet-black hair that draped down over his broad back and corpse-painted face, that drew her in, made her loins feel hot, made her mouth water.

When the set was over, she would have been determined to sneak backstage on her own even if her mother hadn't wanted to meet Skwisgaar. After pressing some money into the right palms, she was backstage with her mother almost before she realized where she was.

Rebecca leaned down to her mother and smirked. "They must be desperate for a real woman. Look at these sluts." A throng of pierced, tattooed groupies with multi-colored hairdos and clothing that would have been appropriate on streetwalkers were all eagerly waiting to go backstage and screw their band member of choice.

Overseeing all this was a harried-looking man with neat dark hair and an equally neat suit, who was making every one of the girls sign several pieces of paper before he allowed them to go back into the Dethklok dressing rooms. "Please, ladies, get in line and stay in line," he was saying, trying to speak over the chattering feminine crowd. "Keep things orderly here, please."

Rebecca was a bit put out that she had to sign some stupid forms (something about paternity waivers, legal-age disclaimers, and STD background checks, blah blah blah) but when she finally got backstage that animalistic, hateful lust returned.

Her contempt was doubled when she finally met Nathan Explosion (the last name was so stupid that she nearly laughed upon hearing it drop from the manager's lips). The big lug was just out of the shower, dressed in loose pajama-pants that sagged down to reveal the white band of his underwear. _Tighty-whities, how despicably common,_ she thought with disdain. He was toweling off his hair when he noticed her; his mouth dropped open in a remarkably stupid expression.

She smiled. He slowly lowered the towel, black hair tangled and dripping. His middle was thick and soft and pudgy, and fat on his upper torso made his shoulders and chest look rounded and soft as well, but she knew there were some thick muscles under there. Just by the way he had moved on-stage, she knew he was strong, and even fairly agile considering his bulk and weight. _I wonder what it would be like to control all that power and energy; to bend it to my will..._. She found the idea irresistibly arousing.

"Who're you?" His voice was deep, gravelly, slightly thick with amazement, as if he had never seen a woman before.

Rebecca's smile widened. _He's certainly never seen a woman like me before, that's for sure. _

"I'm Rebecca Nightrod," she said, extending her hand. "Surely you've heard of me?" Her tone implied that he certainly should have.

"Uhhh..." He blinked, looked at her hand, then took it in his own and clamped down. "Nathan Explosion. Dethklok." His tone had a curt, uncertain quality, as if he was unused to speaking privately with someone instead of screaming at a crowd through a microphone.

The halting conversation paused for a moment as they shook hands. He had a fiendishly strong grasp, but then Rebecca was used to having her hand be clasped by men, and she was no weakling herself, her muscles having been honed by years of tennis, aerobics workouts, and expensive gym sessions. She clamped back and worked his arm. His eyes widened in surprise behind their curtain of wet hair, and he let her go after a few seconds, as if afraid.

"Yes, I _know_. But do you know who _I_ am?" She batted her eyes, examining his blunt, raw-boned features. His heavy brow was almost simian, his nose hooked and crooked from multiple fractures, his large teeth chipped. He did have remarkable green eyes, the only part of him that could truthfully be called pretty or even beautiful. That didn't make her despise him any less.

"Um, Rebecca Nightrod?" He looked clueless. _An expression that comes easily to him, no doubt._

She waved one hand in an airy gesture, ticking off points with her fingers. "Tennis star, model, sitcom star, currently unattached..."

"Oh. So, are you a groupie, then?"

His bluntness offended her, but she reminded herself that such a stupid man would likely think in such crude terms. He was only expressing what was on his tiny mind, after all.

"I'm a woman who knows what she wants," she replied calmly, refusing to let him incense her -- _now,_ anyway. Afterwards, she could use anger to control him. She stepped back a ways and took out a pack of cigarettes and a silver-chased lighter from her small purse. "Do you mind?" She didn't particularly care if he did. When he shook his head, she shook out a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag. Smoking was a recent habit that she had fallen for; she knew it was unhealthy, but didn't particularly care. What good was life if it wasn't lived to the fullest?

She pulled on the cigarette until the oxygen made the lit end glow orange, then took it in one slim-fingered hand and pressed it to Nathan's bare, water-beaded chest. It sizzled out with a wet, smoldering pop that was not completely drowned out by Nathan's howl. He stumbled back from her as if she was a snake that had bit him.

"WHAT THE F--" he screamed.

"And I know," she said, dropping the cigarette and stamping on it as soon as it hit the floor, and then undoing the buttons of her shirt with a smoothly flowing motion, "how to _get_ what I want, as well." She had picked out her wardrobe carefully for the occasion, and her under-things were the most important of all. They were black silk ruffled with red lace. Very expensive.

He glared at her, torn between watching her dangerous hands and looking at the impressively-presented cleavage she was now showing him. His blunt fingers with their black nail polish touched the reddened, swollen burn mark. Whitish-gray bits of ash, muddy with water, dripped down into his chest hair. "Why the hell'd you do _that?"_

She let her smile become that of a girl, teasing, flirtatious. "Because I wanted to. And because I believe in experiencing life to the fullest. I enjoy smoking. I enjoying playing. And I enjoy sex."

"I don't enjoy being burned." But his hand fell away from the red mark on his body when he saw her undoing the front zip on her bra.

"Fair enough." She slowly pushed the bra's cups away from her breasts. "Do you like this, now?" When he hesitated, she whispered, "Promise I won't bite." A lie, of course.

He came forward slowly with a hungry, whipped look on his face that suggested he still did not trust her but wanted her too much to consider being cautious any more. She liked that. It was just the first step in controlling him.

She slipped her high-cut panties down her hips, down her thighs, walked out of them and towards him. Her garters were still on, thin black silk straps hooked to an equally thin silk strap around her waist. Other than those and her red, see-through stockings, she was bare. The air-conditioning ruffled her hair off her shoulders.

They fell back on the floor together in a tangle, Nathan almost crushing her lower torso with his weight. "Hold it!" she snapped before he could start. He glared at her with resentful surprise, his reddened face covered with wet hair. His breathing sounded like a bellows pumping.

She shoved him hard to the side, rolling him over, then grabbed the band of his pants, and yanked them down so hard the seams on the cheap cloth tore. Then she did the same to his underwear.

Gasping on his back, he mumbled in a tone of aroused indignation, "Hey, those were new."

She mounted him with a harsh sort of determination, as if he was a wild horse that needed to be broken in by her. "So bill me. Now shut up, _Tonto."_ The last word was like the hissing crack of a whip. She reached down and dug her painted nails into his arms and began to ride him.

And then, even if he could have dislodged her death-grip from him, she noticed that he didn't particularly want to. And so he didn't.

_( / )_

Nathan Explosion woke up the next morning aching all over. Wincing, he examined his naked body in the light of day, and was frankly horrified by what he saw. It was as if he'd gone to bed with a mountain lion.

He looked at his forearms where she'd gripped him. The red marks had faded over the hours, but it was if he could still feel her hands on him. There were little half-moon scabs where her nails had literally dug into him and cut him. Bruises the size and shape of her delicate hands stood out, purple and yellow-gray, on his forearms.

He whistled, gently touched the sore flesh, remembered last night. Okay, she might have been a mountain lion, but she was a really _sexy_ mountain lion.

His hands went up to his shoulders and chest. Long red scratch marks had puffed the flesh up into crazily streaking lines that crossed and crisscrossed each other over and over. Her nails had torn open his burn wound. He needed to get that looked at and bandaged up. The flesh around the burn wound, he noted with a thrill of insanely erotic horror, was not only red because of the burn, it was red because she had sucked on it and given him a hickey there. She'd left an oily pink smear of her lipstick behind. _She's a monster,_ he thought numbly.

Again, memories of last night came back to counter his horror. She wasn't just a monster; she was also a really sexy mountain lion who was one of the coldest yet most beautiful girls he had ever seen in his life.

He got up, wincing at the cramps in his back, and gingerly put some clothes on. From the way his genitals felt, he would be swearing off sex for at least a week. Maybe half a week, if he felt brave.

In short, Rebecca Nightrod had been a really sexy, beautiful, ice-cold monstrous mountain lion bitch-queen who had, quite frankly, fucked him senseless and given him some of the best sex of his life.

His bare foot stepped down on something that crumpled under it. He looked down, saw a scrap of white paper trapped under his big toe. He chewed his lower lip, then stopped because she had sucked on it last night and it was sore, too. A sense of dread came over him; a premonition that if he bent his aching ass over and picked up that paper and looked at what was on it, he might as well clap a dog collar and leash around his neck, because he was going to be making himself into her bitch for the foreseeable future. And Nathan Explosion hated the idea of being someone else's bitch, especially if he was a bitch for, well, a bitch.

But the memory of last night was still too strong, and the memory of how she had made him feel -- _forced_ him to feel, really -- was still with him enough to drown out the sense of crawling horror that the notion of becoming Rebecca Nightrod's slave induced in him, so he bent down and picked up the little piece of paper, turned it over and looked at it.

It bore a very simple message:

_Tonto -- _

_1 - 555 - 454 - 1199. _

_Call me. NOW._

Nathan sighed and fished out his Dethphone from beneath a pile of dirty clothes. "Yes, honey," he grumbled, fingers already dialing in her number.

_**The End.**_


End file.
